


A Kitten May Wake A Witch

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Original Work
Genre: Chocolate Box Exchange 2019, Comfort, Fluff, Food, Gen, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, a friendly Mary Poppins esque witch, cozy urban fantasy setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 00:31:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17735585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: On a perfectly crisp winter morning, a kitten wakes a witch, and in doing so, strikes a bargain.





	A Kitten May Wake A Witch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/gifts).



A cat might look at a king, but only a kitten can wake a witch

Or so the saying goes. And in the case of a cold, crisp morning somewhere both quite close to Manhattan and quite far away from it, the saying proves true for one Lila May.

Lila May, of course, is the kitten in question.

The witch in the equation? Well, she’s sworn off her witchy ways, or so she tells herself, even as she leaves out fresh bread for the fairies as well as those who might be hungry and braids long blades of grass into bracelets to wear around her wrist for good luck and wards the doorsteps of those in danger with a sprig of rosemary and always, always keeps her window open on the night of the new moon, no matter how cold it is. 

She can’t be a witch and a chef, that joke would just write itself. And Molly, or Mols, as she prefers, is determined to be the best chef this small, sleepy town has ever had, not the latest of at least seventeen witches, all of whom she happens to be related to.

And most of whom still show up for family birthdays, even if they’re now ghosts.

And all of whom, ghostly or in the flesh, take every opportunity to ask Mols (except they always call her Molly) when she is just going to settle down with a nice cauldron, a good cottage, and a friendly familiar.

She replies to them that day will come after she’s better known than Julia Childs and Gordon Ramsay combined. Then, she returns to her kitchen, not to brew up a loves-me-not-potion, but to practice making bourbon-caramel drizzled strawberry cream crepes, which have been called the antidote for a broken heart by at least three different Instagrammers. Between that and her faux-scallops (carefully selected king oyster mushrooms, and if she happened to pick them under the light of a full moon, well, that was just coincidence, not a tradition followed) with truffled sweetpea cream sauce and a balsamic reduction glaze, said by at least one food blogger to be life-changing, she’s sure the Food Network will soon come calling.

Its on one of those aforementioned moonless nights that our heroic kitten slips through the open window. And it's on one of those incredibly mundane, rainy sort of mornings where oversleeping is truly the only option, that the rest of our story takes place within. 

Mols is practical, but she is also still, despite her best efforts, a little magical. So, when the kitten wakes her with a purr, she knows enough to be suspicious, but cares enough to make sure Lila May is given a good breakfast, and as many chin scritches as she pleases.

Only then does Mols say, “you really cannot stay. I’m not looking for a familiar.”

“And I,” Lila May replies imperiously, with the tone of voice is granted to all cats, large, or small, from the moment they first blink open their eyes to regard this strange world with that calculated gaze they all have, “am not looking for a witch.”

“Beg your pardon,” Mols says, always polite, most especially when she is the most confused. She might aspire to _cook_ like a certain chef but that doesn't mean she must mimic his manners. “What are you looking for?”

“Fresh wild-caught salmon, poached each morning and plated with a drizzle of pureed pumpkin, exactly seven blades of grass, selected from your lovely garden, of course, and then, rounded off with a heavy application of catnip as a flavor enhancer.”

It’s a stunning order, delivered with all the care one might expect from a master chef or a particularly snooty Parisen diner. “I… I see.” Mols says.

“I am not a familiar,” Lila May washes one paw, then streaks it over her pink nose, before looking up at Mols expectantly. All cats, of course, are quite good at expecting things, whether or not they deserve them, or even should have them. Especially tabbies, which are known to expect such things as the sun to never move from that precise location which lands a lovely sunbeam right over their bed, the dripping faucet to never stop it’s amusing plink-plink, and all electronic devices to be surrendered upon a single flop upon them.

This tabby kitten at least, Mols notes, at least seems to understand a feline’s dietary restrictions, a thought which is given far more precise explanation with the kitten’s next and final sentence. (for this discussion, at least. There will be many more discussions, or perhaps better-put, edicts issued by Lila May, in the passing years, and many more discussions over flavors, lucky charms, and yes, the occasional spell) The kitten says, “I am a foodie.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for your detailed letter, Ashling! This was such fun to write.


End file.
